


268 - Fashion Show Cute Meet

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Cute meet, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 14:37:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14239422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt "reader is a new/just starting out fashion designer. Van gets invited to a few shows during London fashion week for the first time and although it’s not his scene he decides to check it out anyway to see what it’s about and meets the reader there, like their allocated seats are next to each other and they watch the show and she’s taking notes or something and he’s dead curious about it" from Anon





	268 - Fashion Show Cute Meet

There was so much excitement in the lead up to the show that you never actually thought about what it would really be like on the night. You never considered the weirdness of the beginning and end, all the things that happened before and after the clothes walked the runway. By the time your uber dropped you at the venue, you were finally starting to think about it. Oh, God. There was so much potential for awkwardness. You’d spent years only socialising with the other designers in your classes; you forgot what it was like to be around people that weren’t either neurotic artists or scandalmongering gossips.

You followed the well-dressed people into the building, to where waiters were delivering champagne and photographers were documenting outfits. You were caught by one of them as you passed a wall covered in flowers.

“Babe! Stand right here for me,” he ordered.

You did as you were told, holding yourself as the best angles you could. Being in front of the camera was never your strong suit. You were much more comfortable bossing models about instead. The photographer took a couple of shots then handed a clipboard over. It was a list of names written on unlined paper. You recognised some of the names. The ones you didn't had companies and organisations jotted down next to them. 

As you added your autograph, your eyes drifted to the one above yours. Van McCann, whoever he was, had the type of handwriting that demanded attention. He had the type of name that did too. Handing the clipboard back and moving on into the room, you distracted yourself from being alone by trying to work out which person was Van McCann and what he did.

Has to be a new designer, you thought. Despite not being well-known, he had the confidence to take up a lot of room with his name. He had pressed the pen into the paper hard. The sheet beneath would probably be dented with the writing. The V in his name was sharp, but the other letters were messy and blended together. If they were pulled apart, you doubted they would actually be fully formed.

After one glass of champagne and exhausting every possible thought about Van McCann’s penmanship, you start to mingle, doing your best to take advantage of the night. Finding an alumnus of your design school by the table where waiters were leaving half picked over platters of canapes, you spent the rest of the time pointing out celebrities and influential people with her.

“I’m glad you came over,” Cielo said. “I was trying to work out how to be less awkward,”

“Why don’t they have a class for that?” you replied, nodding in agreement with her. She laughed and shrugged.

“Funny though, seeing you here. Your name came up the other day. Bets are on you getting top of the class for your year,”

“Don’t tell me that. Everyone hates me enough for winning the award that got me here,” you said, going a nice shade of peachy pink.

“Don’t be modest, babe. In my year, the award didn’t even get a prize, just like… recognition. And, holy fuck, speaking of recognition - is that Tim Gunn?!”

There was an audible lowering of voices in the room. As Tim Gunn, like, THE Tim Gunn circulated, people straightened their spines and fluffed up their hair. You couldn’t help but laugh. You also couldn’t help but watch like a hawk.

“Don’t think that guy even knows who he’s talking to,” Cielo said.

Tim Gunn (who, in your head, couldn’t be simply referred to as Tim… or Mr Gunn because he’s not a cowboy) was standing in a small group of people, including a young guy in a suit jacket that looked off the rack, rather than tailored. His hair was slicked back, but in the way that read as ‘this happened because I run my hand through my oily hair a lot’ rather than 'I sat with a stylist for three hours to look this cool.’ The guy wasn’t wearing makeup. He wasn’t in clothing you recognised. He seemed so out of place, but so, so unaware of it.

He was talking to the group, easily holding the attention of everyone near him. He almost glowed. Tim Gunn watched the guy speak with a kind, amused smile on his face. When you and Cielo couldn’t watch them anymore because it was starting to get weird, you went back to gossiping about design school and which teachers were still bitter about never making it in the fashion industry themselves. However, it didn’t take long for the out of place guy to get your attention again. His laugh was beautiful and cut through all the other sounds in the room. You watched him bend over, slap his knee, then stand up. He pointed at Tim Gunn. Had Tim Gunn told a joke? You wanted to hear Tim Gunn’s joke.

“Mate! I just realised where I know ya from!” the guy said. He wasn’t yelling per se, but he didn’t seem to know how to modulate his voice for the social context he was in. “You’re on the telly, yeah? Me mum loves you on that show. The one with the designers and stuff!”

The group all laughed. You hoped they were charmed by him, rather than insulted by his apparent ignorance. How the fuck did a guy like that end up at a fashion show during London Fashion Week?

“Doors are opening,” Cielo said, dragging your attention away from Tim Gunn and co. People were starting to filter from the room. “Where is your seat?” she asked. Digging through your bag, you found your ticket and held it out to her. “Wow. Second row. I’m somewhere in the nosebleeds. Alright, well, I’d catch you after but I’ve gotta run. Add me on socials though.”

You bid farewell to Cielo and found your seat in the second row. The person to your right was wearing sunglasses. That wasn’t unusual to see at fashion events, but the room was dark. Really dark. You doubted they could see anything at all. They were sitting with painfully perfect posture, and only moving to slightly lean towards their friend when they spoke to them in a hushed whisper. Weird. Very weird. Again, not that unusual in the context. 

Someone dropped into the seat to your left. They did with hardly any grace and it made you turn instantly. It was the guy. He was leaning over with his arms rested on his legs. His hands were clamped around a water bottle, half empty. You suspected he’d see it as half full. He smelt like… expensive cologne, something sickly sweet, and maybe tobacco. After he looked around the room once, quickly, he settled his gaze on you.

“Hello!” he greeted. It was one word, maybe less than with the H dropped in accent, but it was so bubbly.

“Hi,” you replied.

“So, I have no idea what’s going on here. Never been to one of these, you know what I mean? Am I meant to, like, take my jacket off?” he asked you.

If it wasn’t clear that he was being genuine, you might have laughed. “There’s not a rule for that. Whatever you want,”

“Whatever I want, huh? What I want is to be down the road at the pub with the lads. Not that I’m ungrateful, but… feel a bit weird, you know?”

You smiled at him. “Then… why are you here?” you asked him.

“For work, kind of. I guess. I don’t know, to tell ya the truth, love. I think I’ll take it off. Can you hold this?”

You took his drink bottle with a nod. His cheeks were flushed red and you watched as he took his jacket off and put it on the back of his chair. The social norm would be to carefully fold it and drape it over one leg. As you debated whether to tell him that, you watched him roll the sleeves of his white shirt up messily.

“The shirt works,” you told him as he took his water back and took a sip. He offered the open bottle to you, but you shook your head in a polite decline.

Someone stood over him then. You both looked up at the man wearing a black t-shirt that read 'SECURITY’ in big block lettering. At first, you thought it was an ironic graphic print. His expression said otherwise though.

“Can’t have that in here,” he said.

“Have what?” the guy asked back.

“That bottle,”

“It’s just water, mate. Here. Have a smell.” The guy opened the bottle and held it up to the security guard. You held in a laugh.

“Doesn’t matter what it is,” security said, taking the open bottle with force and holding his hand out for the lid.

“You think I’m gonna peg it at the models or somethin’?”

You chuckled as he handed over the lid then looked back at you, utterly bewildered.

“Ah… sorry?” you offered.

“You fashion lot. I’ll tell ya… strange bunch,” he replied with a shrug. Grinning, you nodded. He wasn’t exactly wrong, not that taking bottles of water was a fashion industry specific thing.

“Maybe, but at least we know how to dress ourselves. Please let me fold your sleeves.”

He held out his arms straight in front of him and looked at them, then looked over at you with a goofy grin on his face. 

“Sure. Go for it, love.” Immediately, you unrolled his mess and folded neatly. “Good?” he asked when you sat back. 

“You could probably undo another button. Fix the collar,”

“My god. Just go nuts, yeah?” he said with a shrug.

You clapped once then went to town. You undid the top two buttons of his shirt and folded it open, popping the collar just a little. He had a necklace on underneath; a pendant sat against his chest. You untwisted the chain and ran your thumb over it for shine. Lastly, you ruffled his hair a little, then returned your hands to clasp together.

“Good,” you told him with one single nod.

He opened his mouth, ready to say something, but it seemed to get lost somewhere between brain and lips. Instead, he just looked at you and you just looked at him. His eyes were so, so blue, and you liked the dimple that formed heavy on one side of his face. He was charming. Strange. Good.

You were about to ask him his name and what he did when the lights on the runway came on. The unoccupied seats quickly filled, including the one on the other side of the guy. He and the man started talking to each other before, like everyone else in the room, they stopped their conversations to focus on the show.

When you were sure all attention was on the models, you slipped out the mini notepad from your clutch and started taking notes. The person in sunglasses to your left was almost certainly a robot, so they didn’t care about what you were or were not doing. The guy to your right, however… He put his arm on the back of your chair and leant over, reading your notes. You looked at him, his face inches from yours.

“Write down that I liked the first one,” he whispered, tapping your notepad.

You suppressed a laugh, shook your head, and turned back to the runway.

It continued on like that. He kept leaning over, getting in your personal space, and whispering notes. By the end of the show, you’d narrowed down the brand of his cologne to a possible two.

The room’s overhead lights came on and the doors were opened. One set led out onto the street. You spotted Cielo ducking out and making her quick escape. The other set of doors led back to the room with champagne, canapes, and photographers. 

People emptied from the runway space fast, desperate to be either out of heels or back in the social limelight. The guy stayed put, watching people as they left. Maybe to him it really was like being on another planet. 

“So, what did ya think?” he asked. You looked up from where you were putting your notepad away. “Wait! Wait. Give it 'ere for a second.” He took it from your hand and turned to a fresh page. When you tried to look at what he was writing, he twisted away from you with a childish glare on his face. Finished making his mark, he handed you the closed notepad. “For when you get home only,” he instructed.

“Right. Mysterious. Got it,”

“Exactly. I mean, I gotta get somethin’ going for me, since I can’t dress myself,” he said casually.

“But you can pick out good cologne,” you offered.

He shook his head and laughed. “Actually, that was a gift,”

“Really? What is it? I think I’ve worked it out, but I wanna know,”

“You’ve been tryin’ to work out what I smell like? Bit weird, love,” he said with a smirk. When you didn’t reply, he shrugged. “Ah. Tom Ford? I think,”

“Jesus. Expensive. You’ve got rich friends,”

“Wasn’t from a friend. Did you guess it?” he asked.

“Who was it from then? And yes,”

“You have anywhere you need to be, or did you wanna go back in for another champagne. Very fancy. And free,” he said. It made you laugh again. Who was this guy? Where did he come from? Could you keep him?

“How did you get here? Like… this… this isn’t your thing is it?” you asked him. He put his arm back over your chair again and folded one leg over the other. His foot bounced in the air as he looked at you, smiling. Slowly, he started to shake his head.

“Nah. It’s really not. Ah-Well, I mean… Maybe it will be. Don’t wanna write it off so quick, you know what I mean? But, no. I’m in a band, see. We’re a couple of albums in and we’re getting some… ah, traction. In magazines and sometimes on the telly. Mum’s dead made about it all. Our label wants us to, you know…” He paused to do some weird hand actions that were meant to mean something to you. “Want us to do 'cool’ things, or whatever. Get our faces out there. I'm… not sold 'bout it. The lads wouldn’t be caught dead at stuff like this. I don’t mind if it means the band gets to do what we want,” he explained with a shrug.

“Is the guy you’re with from the record label?” you asked. He nodded. “Did someone from the label buy you Tom Ford?” He nodded again. “Well, it’s nice. You smell nice. It hides the cigarettes pretty well,”

“Thanks,” he replied with a small laugh. “What about you then? You do look like you belong here,”

“Do I?!” you asked, totally grateful. “How do you feel about this outfit?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you should do a little walk,” he said, pointing to the runway, still lit up but otherwise abandoned. You thought he was joking. After looking around the room to find it was almost completely empty, you looked back at him. When he stood up and held a hand out to you, you realised he wasn’t joking.

“I don’t think we’re allowed to just use the runway,”

“Sure they won’t mind,”

“There's still people in here too,” you added.

There was a group of three people at the back of the room. They were talking fast and in harsh whispers. Every now and then a head would dip out of sight and come back up. He looked back at you and tapped his nose.

“Don’t think we’re their focus, really.”

So, you took his hand and let him lead you to the top of the runway where you climbed the stairs and stood, waiting for him to sit in the front row, dead centre. He gave you the nod and you started to walk. You never thought how strange it was that you were so comfortable walking for him when you barely let people take photos of you for anything ever. You started laughing when you got to the end of the runway and threw your sheer rayon/silk trench coat at him and he put it around him like a cape.

“Think you threw a bit of money into that outfit,” he concluded when you finished your walk and joined him in the front row. He handed your trench and you carefully put it back on.

“I made it,”

“What?!” he squealed. It made you laugh and you had to proactively try to stop laughing while he picked at your clothes, poking and prodding and asking, “This? You made this? Like, stitched it together?”

“That’s-Stop!” You slapped his hand away. “That’s why I’m here. I’m in design school to, uh, learn… how to design,”

“Looks like you already know how to design. Honestly, this is killer. I mean, I don’t know much about fashion or whatever, but you look beautiful.”

You had to take a breath in before talking. “Thank you. That's… I want people that aren’t like, fancy rich people to like what I do, you know? I actually-Ah-Yeah. Just. Thank you,”

“What were you gonna say?” he asked, his brows pulled together for a moment. You looked at him. “You were gonna say something when you said, 'I actually,’”

“Oh… I didn’t know how… don’t know how to say it without sounding kind of… egotistical. But, I actually got to come tonight because I won this award that happens at my school. So, it’s cool,”

“That’s not egotistical! And congratulations. That’s mad. You shouldn’t feel like you can’t, you know, celebrate your win. Saying you’re good don't mean you’re saying everyone else is shit or anything. Get that Kanye confidence!”

You laughed again and nodded. Kanye confidence. Honestly. What was he? Where had he been your whole life? Who… Who! You gasped at the same time he went to speak again, which stopped him immediately. He looked at you, waiting.

“No, you go,” you said.

“Not after that dramatic sound,”

“Sorry. Yeah. Um. I’m Y/N, by the way. Hi,” you introduced yourself strangely.

“We didn’t do this?! Fuck. Y/N. Hi. It’s so good to meet ya. I’m Van. I was going to sa-”

“Van? Van McCann?” you interrupted. Van’s expression was one part utter confusion and one part… was that cockiness? He nodded. “I just… I saw your name on the photographer’s thing before in there and I just… I just wondered who he was… you,”

“Fuck. Even my name’s out of place?”

“No. No. Well. Yeah. Not in a bad way. And it was your handwriting. Just. I don’t know. Lots of personality or something. Sorry. It’s just. A coincidence,” you said, shrugging and pretending that you actually believed it was just coincidence.

Apparently, Van felt no such obligation. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence at all. The world just needed to prepare ya to meet me,”

“Right. Because you’re very important and special,” you said, teasing.

“Obviously, love. I would’ve probably bumped into you or something before the show too, but I was meeting the guy from the telly that me mum loves,”

“Tim Gunn. I saw,” you replied too quickly.

Not missing anything, Van grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Were you watchin’ me?”

A pause, then, “No. I was watching Tim Gunn. Gosh. Get a hold of yourself.”

Van chuckled, then stood up. “Come on then,”

“Come on then what?” you asked, watching him climb over chairs to get his jacket from his original chair. His long legs allowed him to move with ease and you could imagine how he’d be on stage.

“I was just going to go back in there and do the whole 'follow Todd from the label around’ thing, but I reckon we can skip out and go find something better,” Van replied.

“What if I want to try to meet Tim Gunn?” you asked, standing up and moving to the walkway. Van joined you.

“That’s fair. He was a really sweet guy. He said he liked my jacket, which is funny 'cause I got it from a thrift shop, innit. So, how 'bout we go find my mate Tim Gunn then go catch up with the lads or something. Tim can come, if he wants. What kind of music do you think he listens to?”

You wondered if that is how Van always was. If he was always holding his hand out for people, always keeping them close to his side, always leading them around to adventure. Yes or no, either answer was still beautiful. Yes meant he was a big ball of sunshine. No meant you were getting special treatment. Beautiful, beautiful.

Out in the room where people were getting drunker off the champagne and polishing off canapes like nobody’s business, you let Van meet and great. Despite his confessed dislike of non-music events, he glided through the crowd effortlessly. He introduced himself so respectfully that people couldn’t help but want to hear him talk more. When he introduced you, he referred to you as a designer, and sometimes chucked “award-winning” into the mix. Because of Van and his practice at making contacts, you were racking up the follows on Instagram quickly.

Distracted by the warmth of Van’s hand and the dizzy happiness you could feel in your head, you weren’t paying attention to where he was taking you. It was only when you heard a completely familiar voice saying, “Oh, hi, Van!” that you tuned back into the real world.

“Hey, mate,” Van replied to the real life literal right in front of you like literally right there Tim Gunn.

“So… What did we think? Did we enjoy the show?” he asked Van.

Van pulled your arm then, moved you around so you were directly next to him. Tim Gunn and the two people he was with looked at you.

“Y/N tells me it was amazin’ and I trust her taste, you know what I mean? Y/N, this is Tim. Tim, Y/N,” Van introduced. Stomach doing somersaults, mouth going dry, you were going to say hello, or anything, when Van started to talk again. And he kinda just… didn’t stop.

He didn’t stop raving about your collection, which he obviously hadn’t seen. He didn’t stop praising your work ethic and natural ability. It all sounded so casual and cool, and so true coming from him. Although definitely thought-through and calculated, everything Van said sounded lazy in the most gorgeous way.

“Well, Y/N. I’ll be watching for your name,” the real life Tim Gunn said at goodbyes.

Out in the warm night-time on a street somewhere in London during Fashion Week, Van McCann lit a smoke and grinned at you from where he was leaning against a lamppost. You were buzzing. Absolutely fucking buzzing. Between befriending Cielo, finding Van, and meeting Tim Gunn… fuck… the night could not get better. Finding Van.

He was something special alright, straight out of your dreams into real life in technicolour. Or, more accurately, monochrome. His personality provided enough colour for balance.

“So, where to?” Van asked, watching you glow and totally falling in love. He was sure you thought he was much cooler than he considered himself to be, and was hell-bent on trying to keep it that way.

“What are my options?” you asked back.

He began to walk down the street casually, you followed along like a loyal shadow. He stopped to put his cigarette out against a bin. As he flicked the butt into the trash, he looked over at you. He shrugged, wondering how he could get close and stay close to you.

“City’s alive, right? We can do whatever you want. I can get you home safe and tuck ya into bed. I can introduce you to my band, but they’re probably scattered around the place. I can…”

As Van thought of options, you stepped closer to him. Naturally, without thinking about it, he opened his arms and gently pulled you into him. Just as naturally, you wrapped your arms around his waist and rested your head on his chest. He started to rock side to side. The melodic movement was calming, and when he started to list more options, each one progressively more ridiculous and completely impossible, you listened to his voice vibrate through his chest. You laughed when he wanted you to.

“I don’t mind. Take me somewhere… somewhere easy to be, you know?”

“Somewhere easy to be,” Van repeated, nodding. “I like that wording. That’s good. I know just the place too. Give me a second though. I’m a bit busy right now,”

“Busy?” you questioned. He was still rocking you gently, holding you with enough pressure that you felt safe. “Doing what?”

“Enjoyin’ this, obviously.”

You laughed, equally charmed and amused at his cheesy romance. “Okay. Let me know when you’re good,” you said in a voice that came out a little too quietly and a little too gently for it to be a joke.

Van nodded, then rested his cheek on the top of your head. You closed your eyes and began to identify the individual notes in the cologne. In the distance, you could hear voices calling for taxis and people laughing. In the future, you could see all the ways Van was going to fit into your life.

As it turned out, Van stayed busy with you for a while. Even when you moved from the spot, each new location was just another backdrop for him to get to know you, hold you, entertain you, and fuss over you. When he let you listen to his band’s music, you were enamoured and returned the overpouring of recognition and adoration. It didn’t take long to become each other’s number one fan. It took even less time to know you’d found someone pretty fucking special. Like, you met real life in the flesh amazing oh my god make it work Tim Gunn and Van was still the highlight of the night.


End file.
